


Target Sighted

by Pseud-pseud-pseudio (feral_albertan_female)



Series: For Hire [3]
Category: Character/Reader - Fandom, Marvel, Reader - Fandom, Sabretooth - Fandom, Victor Creed - Fandom, X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Betrayal, Electrocution, Eventual Porn, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Killer For Hire, Mates, Porn With Plot, Sabretooth - Freeform, Sexual Content, Smut, Torture, Victor Creed - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-26
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-06-16 12:49:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15437406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feral_albertan_female/pseuds/Pseud-pseud-pseudio
Summary: Victor Creed's been kidnapped and you're safely ensconced in the Jean Grey School for Higher Learning! Can you convince his enemies to help save the man you can't live without?





	1. Step Nine: The Enemy of My Enemy is My Friend

**Author's Note:**

> Hi and welcome to Part 3.
> 
> WHAT?! PART 3?!?
> 
> It's okay; go back and check out the first two parts. I'll be right here waiting. Don't worry, I'm not in a rush or anything.

Don’t care if he’s guilty, don’t care if he’s not  
He’s good and he’s bad and he’s all that I’ve got  
Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I’m begging you please  
Don’t take that sinner from me  
Oh don’t take that sinner from me 

 _\- Devil’s Backbone_ by The Civil Wars

 

 

 _A pinch. Pinches—_ a lot _of them!_

_CAN’T MOVE! HAVE TO MOVE!!_

_Raven … a name?_

_Your face. Your voice saying these things like there’s a price on your head, and like, a big one._

_Mystique? What’s_ that _mean?_

 _He thinks you’re there—he thinks the face is yours because it looks like you, but you’re here, right?_ Right?!?

_Using each other … she’s using him to get money?_

_“tiger” … His voice sounds forlorn because he_ thinks it’s you _._

_They’re taking him somewhere. No, you don’t know._

_THEY TOOK YOUR CATS! BASTARDS HAVE YOUR CATS AND YOUR MAN AND YOU’RE FUCKING PISSED ABOUT IT!_

The words come out in a rush and you’re not sure you made a lot of sense but you’re breathless by the end and you’ve crushed the armrests of the chair you’d sat in earlier that day.

“First of all,” Jimmy/Mr. Howlett/”Call me Logan” says calmly in his gruff voice, “you _are_ here and you’re safe.”

“I don’t care about being safe!” you shout, feeling the armrests buckle even further under your strength. “I want to go after these fuckbags and get Victor and my cats back!”

Logan, Ororo, Dr. McCoy, and Kitty exchange glances.

It’s around two in the morning and the only one not wearing some semblance of a pyjama is the headmaster. You’d found him in the common room, drinking a beer and watching some Lifetime movie about a woman who’s finally going to find love after years of being alone or shit. He hadn’t even been fucking embarrassed.

Panting, you look carefully of the four standing in front of you. It dawns on you that whomever you encounter may _not_ want to help you because of who you’re asking for: Victor Creed.

To these people, Victor is a ruthless, soulless psychopath who has repeatedly hurt and betrayed them. He’s a killer for hire, an assassin, unapologetic for what he does and how he does it.

To you, he’s the man who’s saving your life, who’s giving you a new start. He’s shown you a side of himself that no one knows about, one that he keeps hidden. You’d kill to keep Victor safe. He’s your world, your mate—your one. You don’t want anyone else in the world like you want him.

It would’ve been better if you had just left, gotten dressed and stolen a vehicle. The few times you’d been in jail were for grand theft auto; you know how to hotwire just about any vehicle.

“Wait here, Lily,” Logan says softly. “We’re need t’ discuss this.”

He leaves the door cracked slightly as the four of them leave, a thin trickle of light angling in from the hallway. You move to the unmangled chair, the one Victor had sat in and curl up it, pressing your nose to the back, hoping desperately to catch his scent, the subtle woodiness of his aftershave.

You understand why they have to talk about it but that doesn’t mean you have to like it. Besides, even if they don’t like Victor, can’t they at least do it for the cats? Bob and Doug McKenzie are adorable as fuck and wouldn’t it be good press?

_X-Men Rescue Two Goddamn Adorable Cats, coming up on CBC News Hour._

Wait, you’re not in Canada anymore. Would CNN cover something like that? NBC Nightly News? Does CBS even _have_ news? What about 60 Minutes?

“—could be a nightmare brought on by separation,” Dr. Henry McCoy is saying quietly. “The scientific community as a whole knows very little about the phenomenon of human mates, sapient or superior. It would seem that some of the rules of the animal kingdom apply, but we’re unsure which ones or if they vary from—“

“Henry,” Ororo’s musical voice cuts in, “while that _does_ present wonderfully fascinating conundrum, but we have a woman in there distraught over the possible kidnapping of her lover. We need to be sensitive, not experimental.”

You’d liked the tall, statuesque woman from the second you’d set eyes on her. You’re not sure why, but you feel a kindred spirit in her, someone who’s been through a similar mess.

“You’re absolutely right, my dear Storm,” McCoy says. “Although it would be beneficial to ask a few scientifically based questions—“

“Sensitive, Henry.” Ororo says. You can hear the smile in her voice.

“Yes, yes,” the doctor mutters, chastised. “Of course, of course.”

“I can’t believe we’re even considering this,” Kitty Pryde hisses angrily. “This is _Sabretooth_ we’re talking about. He can take care of himself; he’s a big boy.”

“Kitty—“ starts Ororo.

“No!” Kitty snaps. “That … _creature_ has done _a lot_ to me and mine and I can’t believe for one second _anyone_ is considering helping—“

“Enough,” Logan snarls. “That woman in there is _my_ responsibility; I made a promise t’ keep her safe an’ well an’ if that means savin’ Creed, I'm gonna do it. I _have to_ do it.”

“Seriously?” Kitty is incredulous. “Logan, out of anybody, you have _all_ of the reasons to hate—“

“I’m well aware of my own history now, Kitten,” Logan says gently, “but I ain’t doin’ it for Creed—I’m doin’ it for her.”

You get to your feet and go to the office door, opening it so you can see his face. As soon as Logan looks you in the eye, you throw yourself at him, wrapping your arms around him tightly.

“Thank you,” you whisper, fighting back tears.

He delicately pushes you back, his hands on your shoulders. “You’re not Victor’s sins,” he says. “You ain’t a villain ‘cause you love one.”

His face is kind and you finally understand—even though he and Logan are mortal enemies—why Victor would put you here, why he’d claim it’s the safest place for you to be.

“Get me a psychic,” Logan said, stepping away from you. “Anyone but Quire. Hank, grab Gambit an’ be at the Blackbird in ten.”

“I’m coming,” you say.

“The hell you are.”

You poke a finger into Logan’s chest and it feels like prodding a brick wall, but you’ve prodded more than your fair share of walls. He actually flinches as the tip of your finger meets his sternum.

“I am going with you,” you say slowly. “This is _my_ man and _my_ cats and I’m gonna kick the fucking ass of whomever did this, you got me, short stuff?”

Ororo chuckles and clasps your hands. “I knew I liked you,” she says, giving them a squeeze. “Kitty and I will stay; we can handle things until you return.” The tall, beautiful woman releases your hands and turns to press a kiss to Logan’s forehead.

“’Ro,” his gruff voice is soft and tender and it makes your heart ache as she puts her fingers to his lips.

“I know,” she says, her eyes twinkling.

You really wish Victor was here to make light of the situation or say something complete inappropriate to rile people up. All of this hugging and kissing is eating up valuable rescuing and ass-kicking time—but you _also_ wish he was here so you could give him a big, naughty kiss.

Logan lets out a low growl and rubs his hand over his face wearily. “Fuck. Do you have any kind of combat training at all?”

“I’m super-strong and have unbreakable bones.”

“Good enough,” he says. “C’mon then.”

Your heart feels lighter as you follow him down the hallway, towards Victor.

You can already feel him in your arms again.

  

* * *

 

 **  
** I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the courage to treat me like a woman.

  
\- Anaïs Nin, American author

 

 

I ain’t feelin’ so good.

It’s like I’m tryin’ to walk through goddamn molasses, the thick viscous liquid slowin’ not just my body down, but my mind, my thoughts. I’m about thirty fuckin’ seconds behind everyone else.

“He’s awake.”

A few seconds pass before I recognise the voice—it’s yours. I try to shape my stupid mouth to say your name but I can’t. All I can do is groan … an’ I think I slobber a l’il.

Gross.

Your face is the first thing I see when I’m able to crack my fuckin’ eyes open. Your lips are twisted in a sick smile I’ve never seen you wear before, but I’ve seen it on someone else, someone … _fuck_.

“M’stique,” I mumble. A l’il more slobber.

The smile fades and she indistinct for a few seconds and then appears, her bright red hair makin’ my fuckin’ eyeballs throb. God _damn_ , was it always that fuckin’ vivid?

“Welcome back to the world of the living, Victor,” she says in your voice.

Fuckin’ goddamn bitch!

How did she fuckin’ manage to hear your voice? It’s right on, even the cadence an’ pitch is right an’ I don’t like it.

In fact, I downright fuckin’ hate it so I let out a really über-fuckin’ angry snarl, lettin’ it reverberate through my body. My rage hangs in the air between us but she laughs it off—classic Mystique.

“Don’ use ‘er voice t’ talk t’ me,” I growl, my tongue still a fuckin’ useless dead weight. “Face me y’rself.”

Those fuckin’ yellow eyes study me for what seems to be an fuckin’ eternity an’ I start to wonder if I’m goin’ tits up crazy as a motherfuckin’ loon. I wanna move my arms but I can’t. I wanna move my legs, but I can’t.

Goddammit.

Raven steps close to me, her eyes travelin’ over my trapped body. “There was a time you’d never speak to me like that,” she said in her own voice.

“Was lettin’ my dick make choices back then,” I say. “I’m smarter now.”

She laughs at me again, thinkin’ it’ll make me angry, that I’ll try n’ pull at whatever chains or shit she got me locked up in, wear myself out an’ make myself weak. I ain’t gonna do it; I let her laugh at me.

There’s more important things at stake here than my pride.

You. There’s you an’ that’s all, that’s it.

If I gotta hang here—wherever the fuck I am—in order to get close to the fucker who’s tryin’ to kill you, I’ll do it.

“Victor Creed,” comes a different voice along with a new smell. Your Bad Man steps into the room, adjusting the cuffs of his dress shirt, Mazur right behind him holdin’ one of those sweet assault rifles in his hand.

It’s too bad Mazur ended up bein’ a total fuckin’ scabbed-up penis. He had access to the coolest an’ newest shit. Maybe I should think of lookin’ up his brother, the guy who makes the booze. I wonder if that dude has access to weapons _an’_ vodka.

Now, that would be the absolute fuckin’ shit.

“Are you paying attention to me, Mr. Creed?” says Bad Man, annoyed.

I shift my head so I can see him better: handsome enough, brown hair, blue eyes, nice suit—looks like every other fuckbag out there who likes to terrorise people they see as lesser.

Whoops, found somethin’ in common with enemy.

‘Cept I ain’t a politician.

I may be a fuckin’ super-sadist crazy psycho killer, but even _I_ have standards.

Heh.

“Nah,” I say hoarsely. “Just thinkin’ ‘bout how I’m gonna kill you.”

“Are you?”

“Yeah. Gettin’ me kinda hard, actually.”

Bad Man shakes his head in disgust. “I have no idea what she sees in you.”

“Well, my dick’s pretty big, so …”

He spins to face me, all furious and shit. “You are _repulsive_ ,” he hisses. “The world will be a better place without you in it.”

I shrug as much as I’m able with the fuckin’ restraints. “You ain’t the first one to say that. Wonder if you’ll be the first one to make it stick.”

“I do plan on having a little fun with you first,” Bad Man says. “Please notice your feet have been placed on two separate metal plates.”

I snort. “Please, I _do_ love hearin’ about evil, nefarious plans.”

He sneers at me. “You’re insufferable.”

Oooh, I’m scared.

“She’s coming to rescue you,” he says cuttingly. “I _am_ going to kill her.”

“She’s going to fuckin’ kick your ass if I don’t kill you first.”

Bad Man turns and leaves, Mystique and Mazur close behind. Raven tosses me a fuckin’ wink before the door slams shut firmly behind them.

Man, fuck those bastards.

Okay: sit rep time. (That means situation report. Had to look that shit up. Shit’s always changin’ in the espionage world an’ you gotta keep on top of the lingo.)

I’m spread eagle, fastened to a brick wall. Encased from the elbows up over my hands, encased from my knees down to my ankles. Explains why I can’t move my goddamn arms or legs.

BM’s right about the metal plates—I wonder what the fuck they’re for?

Heh. BM; like bowel movement.

Fuck, I do amuse the shit outta myself sometimes.

I hear a whoosin’ sound, like water pumpin’ through pipes an’ it turns out I’m right. Water starts spewing from the overhead sprinkler, soaking me. Is this what they’re gonna do? Damp me to fuckin’ death?

The water starts fillin’ up the room.

Fuck.

I fight to keep myself calm. Water’s really the only fuckin’ thing that could possibly take me out permanently. I mean, it ain’t as if I’ve tried it out, y’know? If I’m being honest, I hate bein’ in water past my chest, though I’d never fuckin’ admit it out loud.

Wanna get on a fuckin’ yacht? Fuck, yeah—I’m on a fuckin’ boat! Gotta get on a huge tub to complete a mission? Give me a fuckin’ SCUBA tank an’ I’ll get that shit done. Visit a beach an’ have the water creepin’ up past my neck? No fuckin’ thank you.

Poseidon ain’t gettin’ his fishy mitts on Sabe the Babe’s hot bod.

Weirdly, the water stops comin’ as soon as it reaches my ankles. I can wiggle my toes against the plates but that’s about it.

So, what the fuck is this about? Makin’ my feet pruney is plenty of torture for ol’ Sabretooth? Oh no! How long will our intrepid villain be able to withstand the—

\-- _ddzzzt_ \--

Shit.

\-- _dzzzzzt--_

Fuck.

\-- _dzzzzzzt--_

 _  
_ God _dammit_! The fuckers are electrocutin’ me! They ain’t givin’ me the high voltage shit yet; the current’s just on the painful side of tinglin’ an’ I can’t lift my fuckin’ feet.

\-- _DZZZzzzzt_ —

I don’t like bein’ electrocuted. Makes me pissy, especially when the muscle contractions start at about 3 to 10 mA …

\-- _DZZZZZzzzzzt_ —

… an’ that was fuckin’ it.

It’s gonna get worse—I know it’s gonna get worse, but if you’re comin’ to rescue me, I’m gonna be found. I can bounce back from this … or didn’t Mystique tell him that?

  
\-- _DZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZt--_

Shit. Okay, that one fuckin’ hurt. I can smell my flesh cookin’, feel it burnin’ on my ankles. This is gonna be a bad one.

If you are comin’, tiger, please don’t be the one to find me. Don’t want you to see me like this. Please don’t see me like th—

\-- _DZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT_ \--

 

* * *

 

 

The penthouse is eerily silent, save for the fan on Victor’s computer.

The flight to the city was uneventful, except for the fact you almost barfed in the lap of the stupidly handsome Remy LeBeau (AKA – Gambit) whose name means ‘Remy the Handsome’. You had laughed so hard, the upchucking almost became a thing.

You may have forgotten to mention that you don’t like flying. You’ve never liked flying, not even when being whisked away to fabulous and exotic locales back in the day and not even when you had access to great drugs like Valium and Xanax.

They would usually end up making you feel wobblier than calm and it always took a few hours to shake off the yucky feelings—not that all the alcohol you drank helped.

At least those drugs made you forget you were trapped in a sausage made of metal that was barrelling through the air at, like, thousands of miles an hour.

But technically, you hadn’t been in a sausage made of metal this time; it was more of a bat or a bird made of metal? Still, bat, bird, or sausage, that shit ain’t right.

Rachel Grey, the psychic Dr. McCoy had grabbed, had managed to help relieve you of your nausea, for which you were extremely grateful.

“I smell blood,” Logan grunts.

“As do I,” says Dr. McCoy quietly.

“There are two minds upstairs,” says Rachel. “One’s in pain, but they’re alive.”

You immediately start going towards the stairs, Gambit and Dr. McCoy lurching after you. Logan and Rachel stay to examine the living room area, the former sniffing the darts intently.

Your heart’s going super-bananas in your chest as you stand outside the entrance to the bedroom. You know you’re not going to find Victor in there, but you know there’s blood.

 _Please just don’t let it be his_.

Maybe the people inside can give some validation to your visions and tell you what’s going on.

You take a step forward, ready to go inside, but a metal staff softly hits the wall in front of you.

“Mebbe you should let me go first, _enh_? I got a bit more experience, _n’est-ce pas_?” whispers Remy the Overconfident Male.

This shit doesn’t fly with you.

“This is _my_ house,” you hiss. “Who d’you think they’re gonna want to see: someone familiar or a French _connard_ with a floppy haircut and a pink and purple onesie?”

Dr. McCoy chuckles. “She’s got you there, my friend.”

“I’m not _French_ ,” Remy the Put In His Place mutters. “I’m _Cajun_.”

You ignore him and round the corner carefully.

Ryan’s propped up on the bed, the flat sheet wrapped around this torso; it’s soaked in blood and he’s pale and sweating. Tyler is dabbing at the other man’s forehead with a wet cloth.

“Tyler,” you say gently and his head jerks up. “It’s me. I brought people to help.”

He and Dr. McCoy switch places, Tyler throwing himself into your arms as soon as he’s close enough; you can feel his tears landing on the shoulder of your onesie. You stroke his back and murmur words of comfort, letting him know he’s not alone.

“He gon’ tell us what happened or what?” Remy the Impatient asks, gesturing at the young man in your arms.

You inform him that Tyler has no tongue and he has the decency to be embarrassed, offering to get Rachel so she can help. Dr. McCoy fusses around Ryan, unwraps the sheet from the wound to get a better look at it.

“I’m awake,” Ryan croaks, reaching out lamely with one hand. “Who’s here?”

“It’s me,” you say. “I brought some back-up.”

His head flops in your direction, his eyes dangerously unfocused. “Thank god,” he mutters. “Where’s Mr. Creed?”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. “I was hoping you’d know.”

“He still alive?”

“Yes.” Your answer is firm and definite because you _know_ Victor’s alive; you can feel it in your body somehow, like an extra presence that’s all warm and comfortable.

He laughs weakly. “Shit, he’s gonna be so mad I’m bleeding on the bed.”

“He’s going to be even madder that you tore up the sheets to make bandages.”

Your gentle teasing makes him laugh until he groans in pain and you rush to a closet in the bathroom where you keep your ad hoc med kit. Dr. McCoy flashes you a grateful look and the both of you get to work on Ryan.

Rachel comes into the room, Logan close behind. She takes Tyler aside and asks for permission to share his memories of the events. He grants it and they fall silent—or at least, Rachel does anyway.

“What can you tell us, Ryan?” you ask.

He informs everyone in a weak voice that he’d been tending to the car in the abandoned car lot when bullets start whizzing by him; he gets hit and goes down. He wasn’t aware of much until Tyler shook him awake just in time to see Tristan’s elevator open and a blue-skinned woman came out, Tristan and another man dragging Victor out into the open. He starts shooting again from his position on the floor and he tagged Tristan, who hit the floor with a bullet in the head.

Once he’s done talking, Ryan turns to Tyler, his eyes sad despite the pain. The other man reaches out and squeezes his hand gently; he understands Ryan was doing his job.

“Got some security footage,” Logan says. “It don’t give us much.”

Gambit puts down a vase he’d been admiring and furrows his brow. “We all know Mystique,” he says. “Ain’t like her to get caught on camera. She knows better, would’ve covered all the bases.”

You cross to Victor’s nightstand and pull out a remote. You press a button and it lowers a T.V. from the ceiling where it could be easily be viewed from the bed.

“We can look at the footage here,” you say, tapping a few more buttons. “Give me a few seconds to get it working.”

Gambit whistles appreciatively. “Creed’s livin’ right. I’m in da wrong business, me.”

The screen flicks to life but there’s no audio. A lump forms in your throat as you watch Victor come into the penthouse, the dim lighting shimmering on as he moves across the space towards his computer. Doug makes a flash-bang appearance, swiping at the large man’s shins and drawing a giggle from you.

“That cat’s got some balls,” Logan remarks as you watch Doug vanish under the couch.

“Not anymore,” you say offhandedly, making the others laugh.

The top of Victor’s beautiful blonde hair and the broad expanse of back is visible as he turns on his computer and immediately pulls his cell from his pocket. He taps a few times—obviously texting—then his fingers are hitting the dial button and you remember what comes next. The chair turns sideways and you can see him fully.

“Oh _shit_ ,” you yell, jamming your fingers down on the remote. The picture stutters a few frames then pauses on the shot of the cell on his desk, his hand fumbling with his stupidly expensive pants that you like to make fun of him for buying. “NO, NO, NO! LOOK AWAY, GODDAMMIT! LOOK AWAY!”

Logan doesn’t say a word, only turns around and crosses his arms over his chest. Rachel and Tyler are too engrossed in each other, and Dr. McCoy is fixated on an unconscious Ryan.

That leaves only Remy the Perverted, who has not turned nor closed his eyes. He has one hand lifted to his face, one of those long, supple fingers pressed to his lips, like he’s in a fucking film study class, analyzing the scene for goddamn credits.

“I may be mistaken, but is dat a photo of your ti—“

“Stop! Looking! You! French! Freak!”

Each word you deliver is followed by a punch to his upper arm and you only manage to hold back your _real_ strength, lest you send him crashing through the wall (though it’s really fucking temping at this point).

Gambit brings his arms up to protect himself from you attack. “Jus’ tryin’ to help, _ma_ _petite_! An’ I’m not French!”

“Well, you can _help_ by not being a fucking deviant!” you hiss. “I’ve been through enough today, goddammit, without you calling attention to my possible boobs!”

He has the decency to finally turn away, his unusual eyes twinkling mischievously. Would Victor eat this guy if you asked? Maybe make him Remy the Entrée?

After a few seconds of scrambling, you find the right button and the T.V. goes dark as you fast-forward through the next ten minutes until you’re _fairly_ sure all of the naughty bits are over with. God _damn_ , that was some fine-ass phone sex, though.

The next scene starts with Victor standing and Bob coming over to roll happily in his discarded shirt. Bare-chested (!!!), the sexiest man alive sits back down at the computer only to rise again when someone else comes into the frame. The man looks awfully familiar, but you can’t quite place him. Victor seems to recognise him, probably thanks to his sense of smell.

“I know this guy,” you mutter as you pause the footage. You enlarge the picture as much as you can before it turns blurry and stare at the man, who’s dressed in an expensive-looking suit and has a head of thick, silvery hair. He kinda looks like an elderly James Bond, if James Bond were a man in his mid—

“Fuck me gently with a chainsaw,” you exclaim softly as you recognise the fancy man. “That’s Mr. Mazur, my old neighbour.”

You spin away and thrust your hands into your hair. “Fuck! I bet that’s how the bastard knew where I was,” you say, mostly to yourself. “Mazur was sending him all my wheelings and dealings the whole fucking time! Goddamn it! _GOD FUCKING DAMMIT_!”

The clever shit even managed to get a job with Victor, squirreling his way in to your mate’s inner circle, sussing out the situation, letting the bastard know every move you were making. The day the yellow envelope with the DVD came … Mazur had delivered it by hand and neither you nor Victor had questioned him because you both trusted the fucking asshole.

You start to feel sick to your stomach as the feeling of betrayal slimes its way through your system. It’s a gross and disturbing sensation, something you’d felt only once before.

You’d given Mr. Mazur the keys to your place for days you couldn’t come home to feed the cats due to work or school. He was a frequent visitor, always bringing Bob and Doug McKenzie something new to eat or play with. He’d even brought _you_ food when he knew you were going through lean times.

Mr. Mazur said he liked taking care of you because you reminded him of his daughter. You’d thought he was a sweet, lonely old man, but the whole time, he’d been spying on you, abusing your barely given trust.

He’d made a fool of you.

“You okay?” Logan’s hand is a nice weight on your shoulder, calming even.

It reminds you of Victor, the animal heat that flowed from him. “I’m fine, just—shocked. I don’t trust a lot of people but he was someone I did. Victor trusted him on account of me.”

Your chest is becomes tight with emotion, your head throbbing. Your mate had been taken because you were stupid, stupid enough to trust the first face that had shown you kindness that hadn’t asked for anything in return.

Now you’re paying the price for that stupidity—and so is Victor.

Logan squeezes your shoulder gently. “Don’t gotta watch the rest, darlin’,” he says softly. “I watched it all; I know what happens.”

You immediately tense.

 _Fuck_.

Your man and cats have been kidnapped, you find out your closest friend was a fucking spy, and the guy who’s technically your boss watched Victor yank it to a sexy phone call from you.

To paraphrase Chandler Bing, could this day _be_ any shittier?

Logan senses your distress and drops his hand. “No, not _that_ ,” He sounds embarrassed and it eases yours a little bit. “I fast forwarded through _that_. Jesus kid, I’ve seen a lotta shit, but ain’t _ever_ gonna be one of ‘em.”

The cool sensation of relief washes over you, but you refused to be swayed. “I want to watch it,” you say resolutely. “I want to see the bitch.”

He gives you a brief nod, a small smile on his face like he admires your gumption. Honestly, you don’t have much gumption so much as a need to annihilate the people who dared take the three things you love most in this stupid fucking world.

You start the video up again at two times the speed and watch as Victor and Mazur jerk through the motions.

“Tranqs,” Logan says. “Heavy sedative, probably enough to take down several elephants. Carbonadium tipped.”

Your mate goes down heavily and she finally comes into view, the woman who’s going to get her shit fucked up so bad. You bump the video back to regular speed because you want to memorise her face. You’re going to yank off all that pretty blue skin and make her watch as you feed it to your cats.

No, wait; blue skin might be bad for them, so you’re going to make her watch as _you_ eat her pretty blue skin—maybe with some lima beans and a nice bottle of Chianti.

“Mystique knows where da cameras are,” Gambit says. “She’s playin’ to ‘em.”

The woman—Mystique—goes blurry for a moment and comes back into focus as you; your face, your hair, your eyes, your body, your _everything_.

Victor seems confused and his mouth forms the word _tiger_. He reaches out to Fake You, trying to touch her, but she slaps his hand away, and he soon gives into unconsciousness. You choke back a sob.

“He thought it was me,” you say over the lump in your throat. “Victor thought I was betraying him. Oh god, he must hate me so much—“

“Don’t,” Remy the Somewhat Comforting says immediately. “You don’ know dat. The drugs an’ Mystique got him all mixed up. He knows it wasn’ you, _petite_.”

You blink rapidly, desperately trying to keep the tears threatening to fall at bay. “That’s really nice of you to say, Remy the Handsome. _Merci_.”

“ _De rien_. I’ve been in your position; it ain’t nice.”

Rachel joins the group. “Tyler says Tristan was acting strange, like he was hiding something.”

“That would be it,” Logan says, pointing to the screen. Tristan moves into view, helping Mazur lift and carry Victor’s limp body. “Also thinking that’s how Mystique knew where all the cameras where; kid gave her a complete layout.”

“That still doesn’t give us any indication where they’ve taken him,” Rachel says as she turns to you. The second she sees your face, she lights up. “Wait, I think we can find out.”

You don’t really care too much for the look in her eyes—bitch be a little bit cray—but once she explains what she plans to do, you can’t be down with it hard enough. And hey, who hasn’t been a bit cray at times?

As soon as you comfortable in on of the chairs, the psychic across from you, she tells you to picture Victor in your head—psht! Like _that’s_ hard.

Her mind bumps yours gently and you suddenly a silver shining rope stretching out off into the distance. You start to follow it, eager to find your mate, eager to kick the ass of the people who took him from you.

“Your connection is really strong,” Rachel murmurs. “I don’t think this will tak—“

You’re already gone.

 

* * *

 

 

It’s a fuckin’ beautiful day outside, sun shinin’ an’ birds chirpin’ an’ all that romantic ass poetry shit but the only thing I care about is that you’re sittin’ right in front of me.

_goddamn it hurts an’ I don’t like it stop please stop_

I can see you as clear as the fuckin’ day. “Tiger,” I say, reachin’ out to touch you. “What’re you doin’ here?”

You inch away from me, making me growl in frustration. I wanna touch you; it’s all I wanna do, so why won’t you let me?

_pleasepleasepleasepleasepleaseplease_

“Where are you, Victor?” you ask me an’ your voice is fuckin’ music to my ears.

I chuckle, sweeping my hand over the landscape of hills an’ grass an’ the blanket we’re sittin’ on. “I’m right here, baby,” I say.

_no, fuck, stop it hurts so much_

You shake your head an’ you jump slightly, like a hologram flickerin’.

“No,” I can almost hear the tears in your voice an’ I don’t understand why you wanna be fuckin’ cryin’ on a goddamn beautiful day like this. “I need you to show me, Victor. Show me where you are.”

_makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop_

I hesitate ‘cause I don’t want you to see me, to see what they’re doin’ to me, to see the shape I’m in. It ain’t pretty but you’re so pretty an’ I tell you so.

Your smile is as cheerless as dog shit an’ it’s all breakin’ my heart an’ whatever.

“I wanna be with you, tiger; I really do,” I say.

Your hand touches mine an’—

\-- _DZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT_ — _DZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZT_ —

_it hurts, please stop_

“Show me!” you plead.

An’ I’m screamin’ ‘cause it fuckin’ _hurts_ an’ I don’t want you to see me so fucked up but I do it.

I open my fuckin’ eyes an’ I show you.

_MAKE IT STOP PLEASE_

 

* * *

 

Your eyes snap open and you find yourself looking directly into Logan’s stoic face.

“I know where he is,” you say. “I know where to find Victor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SCUBA stands for Self-Containing-Breathing-Apparatus. Henry Fleuss (1851-1932) wants you to go deep! Underwater, that is.
> 
> mA stands is the fancy term for milliampere. 3-10mA, which Victor firsts experiences, causes muscle contractions and pain. It only gets worse from there, trust me.
> 
> Shout out to Mr. Pseud-pseud-pseudio (AKA - Mr. Goddamn Science In This House!) for explaining to me the fine art of a completed circuit and how you could actually electrocute someone in ankle deep water. I'd also like to point out this question didn't even phase him. I love him.
> 
> Valium and Xanax I'm not even gonna touch. Y'all know them.
> 
> N'est-ce pas (French) - "Isn't it so?"
> 
> Connard (French) - "asshole"
> 
> Ma petite (French) - "my dear" or just "dear". Can also mean "small"
> 
> Merci (French) - "Thanks"
> 
> If any of my translations are wrong, I beg your forgiveness.


	2. Step Ten: Burn, Baby, Burn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is no Victor here--only his beast.

 

Electric shock occurs upon contact of a (human) body part with any source of electricity that causes a sufficient magnitude of current to pass through the victim's flesh, viscera or hair. Physical contact with energized wiring or devices is the most common cause of an electric shock.

 

\- Electrical Injury article on Wikipedia

 

* * *

_I am Victor’s beast within._

_His body and mind are tired, worn, just about dead._

_He is gone._

_I remain. I am instinct._

_Keep him alive, keep him hanging on, let him rest._

_I am ever vigilant._

_Alert to danger, alert to threats, on knife’s edge._

_I can fight, I can protect, I can win._

_He is safe with me. I work when he cannot._

_I am keeping him alive for you, my chosen one._

_Our mate._

_Our love._

_Our everything._

_Come quick._

_I cannot do this forever._

_Even a beast has limits._

* * *

please make it stop

 

 

* * *

 

 

… larger currents usually result in tissue damage and may trigger fibrillation of the heart or cardiac arrest, any of which may ultimately be fatal. If death results from an electric shock the cause of death is generally referred to as electrocution.

 

\- Electrical Injury article on Wikipedia

 

 

 

_He is restless._

_I woke him speak to you because I did not want you to see me._

_We have met only once, when I saw that flickering picture where another man claimed your body._

_I did not like that._

_I was and am aware that is was not your fault._

_But I could not let the flickering picture of that man consume our thoughts—Victor was right to let me take control, let me reclaim you._

_I was gentle with you in ways I had not been with others and I took you in ways that he had not because while I am a beast, I will not be a beast with you._

* * *

  

i wish you were here with me, tiger

it’s nice

i think you’d like it

there’s so much blood in here

 

* * *

 

 

The injury related to electric shock depends on the magnitude of the current. Very small currents may be imperceptible or produce a light tingling sensation.

  - Electrical Injury article on Wikipedia

 

  

_The first time I saw you, there was an electric shock._

_It tingled, was pleasant._

_Not like these, the ones that keep coming and coming._

_I know you often wonder why you were chosen, why I have made you the focal point of our life._

_It is because you are the eye of the hurricane, the calm before the storm, the single, solitary light in a world of darkness and disorder._

_We are chaos._

_You are not._

_You are bliss._

* * *

  

don’t hurt no more

tired

but i don’t want to go to sleep without you

  

* * *

 

Other methods of electrical torture do not use a fixed wire but the prod has two electrodes of different polarity a short distance apart so as to make a circuit through the flesh between them when it is placed on the body, thus making it easy for the operator to target the shocks accurately in the places that cause the victim most pain and distress.

 

\- Electrical Injury article on Wikipedia

 

 

_Loud sounds, booms._

_Hackles raised, growl low._

_Alert, head raised._

_Gunshots – pow pow pow._

_Sniff smell scent._

_Fire._

_Gunpower._

_Sweat, blood, fear, blood, hate, blood, love—_

_You._

_Your scent is sweet; I breathe it in greedily, let him know you are close._

_He stirs but it is all I allow for now._

_He is still hurt._

_He is still tired._

_We still live for you._

* * *

 

_Jesus fuck._

Those are the first words that tumble from your mouth as you see Victor.

At least, you think you spoke them out loud, but you aren’t sure because you’re moving towards him, splashing down into the ankle deep water, and someone—probably Logan—tries to grab you, possibly to stop you, but you won’t be stopped regardless of the danger.

You yank the foot restraints off first and he groans quietly, lifting one foot the tiniest of bits.

He’s alive.

 _Victor’s alive_.

With a sob, you start attacking the arm cuffs, desperate to get them off of him, frantic to hold him, to let him know he’s safe.

A hand touches your shoulder. “Gentle, darlin’,” comes Logan’s voice. “Gentle.”

Victor’s skin is split and blackened; the smell is beyond revolting but you refuse to retch or gag. He needs you whole and he needs you strong—he needs _you_.

Only one eyes remains and it fixes on you as you reach up to softly stroke his singed and brittle hair. His mouth moves but no sound comes out.

“It’s okay, baby,” you say, the tears almost choking your voice. “We’re getting you down.”

“I’ve shut off his pain receptors,” Rachel says and you give her a grateful look. “It should help ease some of the stress on his healing factor.”

You jerk the last restraint from the wall and help Logan ease Victor’s scorched and blistered body to the ground. His mouth moves the whole time though you can’t hear his words. As soon as he’s prone—you hadn’t noticed when the water disappeared—you press your lips to his cracked and burnt ones, kissing him again and again until you hear him speak.

“Don’t cry, tiger,” Victor rasps weakly, his arm trembling as he tries to wipe away wetness you hadn’t realised was on your face. He’d been trying to tell you not to cry this whole time.

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you murmur, taking his hand to kiss lightly.

He gives a shaky chuckle before he sighs and his one good eyelid flutters. “Love you.”

“I love you too, Victor.”

He exhales noisily, his eye closing as his body relaxes. You don’t hold back the sob but you clamp your hand over your mouth to muffle the sound lest Victor hears it. The others are silent, giving you all the privacy they can in the large, open room. You know Dr. McCoy is eager to help, so you try not to take too long.

As you lean back, you notice Victor’s eye is open, staring up at you, but you know it’s not Victor behind that gaze.

“Thanks,” you whisper and the eye blinks once. Leaning down, you kiss his lips again. “I also love you.”

The eye softens and blinks one more time before shutting firmly.

You get to your feet and dust off the knees of your black and yellow onesie while Dr. McCoy rushes to Victor’s side.

“Where is she?” you shout. “Where is that blue-skinned bitch?”

Logan stares at you silently, his eyes flicking down to Victor and back again. The seconds ticking by are driving you fucking crazy. If he won’t tell you, you’ll find her yourself, even if you have to tear this motherfucking place down with your teeth.

Finally, after an agonising ten seconds, Logan tilts his head. “Upstairs, second room on the right.”

No one dares stop you as you streak out of the room, practically scaling the staircase like your goddamn Spiderman. You can almost smell her, the glossy blue skin, the impossibly bright red hair—it smells like she’s going to have that impressively taut ass handed to her on a not-so-silver platter.

The flimsy door buckles under your furious kick, crashing against the wall and crumbling into a zillion splinters.

You’re suddenly face to face with the Mystique, her yellow eyes calm and collected as she takes you in. You chest heaves as you take in a deep breath, ready to give this woman your all.

“WHERE ARE MY CATS, YOU BASIC BLUE BITCH?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Mr. Pseud-pseud-pseudio and Wikipedia for having my back ... and my inspiration.


	3. Step 11: Have the Ability to Improvise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You and Victor Creed are reunited ... and now it's time for you to kick some ass. Or will you have your ass kicked?

I would die for you   
I would die for you   
I've been dying just to feel you by my side   
To know that you're mine 

-  _#1 Crush_  by Garbage

 

* * *

  

“WHERE ARE MY CATS, YOU BASIC BLUE BITCH?”

Mystique smiles at you the rage boiling inside bubbles over; you’re ready to punch this twat right into Gargamel’s cast iron pot.

“Look, Smurfette,” you hiss as you advance on her, “you think you can fuck with me and my man, you’ve got another thing coming and it’s called Me Punching You in the Face a Whole Bunch of Times.”

The smile becomes a smirk. “You can thank me later,” she says.

Her words make you hesitate. Thank her? You want to pummel her into blue paste, not send her a thank-you gift card to smurfing Starbucks.

“She’s here,” Mystique says, touching her ear. “Send me the money.” A split second later, she pushes something on her bracelet. “Do it; blow it up.”

 _Blow it up_? Blow what up?

While you’re bewildered by her behaviour, she’s suddenly crouched in the windowsill, ready to jump.

“What happened to Victor—it’s not personal,” Mystique says, her hair bright in the streetlight filtering from outside. “It’s just part of the game.”

“Don’t you dare say his name,” you growl. “You lost that right after what you did to him.”

She laughs, her red hair bright under the streetlight filtering in from outside. “Girl, I’ve done much, much worse to him and he still came crawling back.”

“Victor’s done crawling,” you say, “especially for you.”

Suddenly, your mate is in the windowsill, his mouth twisted in a sick smile. “If you say so, tiger.”

You lunge towards the window but Victor—and Mystique—are gone.

“GET BACK HERE, YOU SMURF REJECT!” you scream into the night, scaring a flock of seagulls (the birds, not the band) into taking flight, squawking as they wing away.

Victor is downstairs; his pain—even though his receptors had been shut off—is throbbing through you with each beat of his heart and you let one of the bastards who hurt him slip through your fingers.

Emotion overwhelms you despite your best efforts and you sink to the floor, your hands covering your face.

You won’t cry. You  _won’t_.

Victor doesn’t need you falling apart right now; you have to be tough and courageous.

You’ve walked the walk and now you have to talk the talk—you promised that you would, but here you are, trying not to cry on the floor of an abandoned warehouse because  _someone_  has no goddamn imagination and Mystique is as free as … something that’s free.

You’re not in a witty mood at the moment.           

A sob escapes you.

Hands close around your wrists and you start, kicking out. There’s a loud  _OOOMPH_  and a clatter as a body hits the other wall. You scramble upright, hands clenched, ready to fight.

“ _Arr_ _ête_! Goddamn  _petite_ ; you’re strong!”

You find yourself looking at the face of Remy the Handsome as he gets unsteadily to his feet, one hand rubbing his injured midsection.

Now you’re pissed. Again.

“What the fuck were you trying to do?” you demand. “I could’ve fucking killed you!”

“I believe it,” Gambit mutters, still hunched over. “I came to ‘elp; heard Mystique’s voice. T’ought you were in trouble.”

You get close to him, poking a finger against his chest. “Yeah?” you rage. “If you’re here to help, why didn’t you flick one of those fucking exploding cards at her?”

His unusual red and black eyes are fixed on yours. “You were in da way,” he says softly. “Din’ wanna hit you.”

“I have unbreakable bones, you French  _b_ _âtard_!” you yell, pounding a fist on his chest. “You wouldn’t’ve hurt me! You could’ve—“

Remy’s mouth captures yours, effectively silencing you.

Your whole body tenses, unsure what’s happening, but his lips are nice and soft, the kiss gentle yet firm, and you relax into it with a sigh. Your hand loosens and you stroke it down his chest, the feel of his strong, muscled body soothing you.

But wait, this isn’t right.

This  _isn’t right_.

The voice inside you is wailing that this is  _not_  your mate.

Gambit suddenly pulls back, smiling down at you as he tucks a stray piece of hair behind your ear. The gesture is familiar to you—intimately familiar—and you can’t find the right words as you gaze up at Remy the Excellent Kisser.

“I’m not French,” he murmurs, “I’m Cajun.”

Words come back to you—like,  _all_  the words—and you’re about to give the Cajun (!!) a piece of your mind, when you hear a scream.

It’s rough and hoarse, raising the hairs all over your body and travelling along every one of your nerves.

 _Victor_.

You’re out of Remy’s arms and about to hop over the second storey railing, because fuck the stairs, when a hand grabs the back of your black and yellow onesie and jerks you down.

“Don’ be an  _imbecile_ ,” he hisses. “Get to him in one piece,  _eh_?”

You shove him away and make the leap anyway, the rush of cool air on your face and in your hair a brief respite before you hit the floor on your feet like a goddamn cat. You don’t spare Gambit a glance, but you hear him mutter “ _Merde_ ” as you race towards Victor, towards the man you need more than anything else in the world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“WHERE ARE MY CATS, YOU BASIC BLUE BITCH?”

Your voice—even though it’s pissed as fuck—flows over my cooked brain, soothin’ me into consciousness.

My tiger’s out there flashin’ her claws, roarin’ like mad. If I wasn’t fuckin’ feelin’ like a well-done pot roast, I’d be harder than lonsdaleite. That’s one of the hardest materials on Earth … insert  _other than my dick_  joke here.

Yeah, I read books an’ shit.

Fuck, I wish I were there with you, tearin’ it up and tearin’ it down.

I brace for the pain that’s inevitable (big word even though my brain is a fried egg; nice) now that I’m awake, but it don’t come.

Musta burnt out my pain receptors—that’s a new one on me.

Can’t smell nothin’ yet, but I manage to crack an eye open—only one. Musta lost the other—and see the stupid fuckin’ runt standin’ over me an’ the Big Blue doc worryin’ over my smokin’ hot carcass.

“Fuck,” I mutter but it comes out more like a rough whisper.

Vocal chords ain’t fully healed yet. Sexy.

 _Mate_.

Beastie’s been up an’ about; I can feel it boilin’ at the back of my well-done brain. Remindin’ me ‘bout you, as if I could forget. Beastie’s a bit of a fretter though, ‘specially when it comes to you.

“Where is she?” I rasp, tryin’ to lift myself onto my elbows. I can hear my skin cracklin’ an’ McCoy’s tries to gently push me back down but I ain’t havin’ it. I need to find you.

“She’s takin’ care of what needs takin’ care of,” the runt says, all fuckin’ casual like.

_Shit._

I know you’re more’n capable of takin’ care of yourself, but Beastie’s in goddamn overdrive. It wants to be by your side, kickin’ ass an’ chewin’ bubblegum, ‘cept I ain’t in no shape to be goin’ nowhere … an’ Beastie knows it.

Also, I hate bubblegum. Loses its flavour too damn quick for my taste.

I start tryin’ to sit up, pushin’ the doc’s big blue mitts from my roasted marshmallow bod, but it turns out I’m nothin’ but a big ol’ turtle stuck on its damn back, rockin’ from side to side, hopin’ some poor Earth hugger motherfucker would come along an’ put me the right ways ‘round.

“Rachel,” says the runt and white-hot pain starts blasts along my nerves, my neurons, every single inch of skin.

_Ohsweetshitmakeitstopohgodpleaseno!_

The agony snaps away as quickly as it came an’ I come to myself gaspin’ for air, saliva foamin’ at my mouth. I can even feel snot runnin’ from my nose. Gross.

Did I scream?

Runt’s lookin’ down at me, all smug as shit. I wanna slap his entire fuckin’ face from his bastard skull.

“Rachel’s turned off your pain receptors,” he says. “Let Hank do his goddamn job.”

 _Mate_.

Beastie’s pullin’ out all the stops; memories of you, your scent, your smile, the noises you make when we’re fuckin’.

It growls, the sound comin’ from deep inside, the primal, animal place, reverbin’ through the room, bouncin’ ‘round like a little rubber ball. It’s desperate.

The runt leans down, puttin’ his face real close to mine. “Your mate’s fine,” he says softly. “She’s strong; you wouldn’t’ve chosen her otherwise.”

Beastie takes in the runt’s words an’ turns ‘round a few times before settlin’. Fucker trusts that total asshat better’n it trusts me? That shit’s fuckin’ rude.

It’s stupid—mainly because I hate his goddamn fuckin’ face—but Jimmy’s statement don’t just soothe Beastie; they put me more at ease too ‘cause I know he wouldn’t’ve said it if it wasn’t true.

Jimmy ain’t the kind of guy to calm ruffled feathers. He tells it like it is an’ he don’t give a shit if you fuckin’ like it or not. I can respect that about the stupid motherfucker, so I do what any good Canadian would do and thank him.

“Fuck you, you fuckin’ fuck.” I sneer.

The runt just laughs.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He’s awake.

_Hesawakehesawakehesawakehesawakehesawake_

You hear him cuss out Logan with a generous sprinkling of his favourite word and your heart swells in your chest.

Victor seems to sense you before he sees you. “Hey, tiger,” he says, his voice sounding stronger than it had earlier.

You fling yourself down next to him, careful not to throw yourself over his burnt and cracked body. “Hey,” you say nonchalantly. “Lookin’ good.”

He chuckles painfully. “I always look good, even when my chestnuts’ve been roasting over an open fire.”

You clamp your hand over your mouth to stifle your laugh and feel a few tears leak from your right eye. Victor’s face softens—as much as it can—and he touches you with a few blackened fingers.

“As much as I hope that hialrious phrase ends up on your Christmas cards this year,” Dr. McCoy says, “we need to get Creed back to the medi-lab.”

You want start helping—you  _are_  a nurse, after all—but the doctor gently nudges you aside and he’s right to do so; you’re compromised. Logan takes you to the corner of the room, letting you keep an eye on your mate. You watch as Rachel carefully lifts Victor with her telekinesis and the others help as she slowly manoeuvres him out of the room.

Once it’s just the two of you, Logan’s eyes drop to your lips briefly and an odd look crosses his face before you remember Gambit’s kiss and your fingers fly to your mouth. “I—we—“

Logan shakes his head dismissively. “I don’t care,” he says. “Tell me what went on.”

The weight of what happened falls suddenly and heavily on your shoulders and you sag slightly. Logan notices your distress and places a hand on your shoulder.

“She’s—she’s gone. I let her—she got—“ You falter and look up at him helplessly. “He’s not here and Bob and Doug—“

Tears come now that Victor is out of the room; it’s okay to feel vulnerable because he’s safe, being cared for and he no longer needs your strength. You clamp your arms around yourself and let it all out, let your frustration and your fear and your hopelessness and your uncertainty and your pain roll down your face, wet your cheeks, and plop silently onto Logan’s impressive looking boot.

He doesn’t say anything, just allows you to fall apart while he grips your shoulder firmly. You appreciate the contact; Victor’s still anxious around crying women, but Logan seems more comfortable, knowing to stay close and quiet and let you to feel your emotions.

He doesn’t try to appease you by saying that things will be all right, that everyone will be safe and sound, that Bob and Doug McKenzie are going to be saved.

You appreciate that less, but at least the man’s being honest; neither of you know if things are going to work out. False hope would make defeat even worse.

“Well,” comes a crackly voice over a speaker. “Isn’t this a cozy little scene? Is he paying you well, whore?”

Your tears immediately stop as your head snaps up, looking for him, for Felix. A small growl escapes your chest when you don’t spot him.

“He’s not here,” Logan whispers, taking his hand from your shoulder. “His scent is hours old.”

Buzzing fills the air for a few seconds.

“You’ve been very naughty, pet,” Felix says. “Do you know what I do with naughty whores?”

Your heart is in your throat and you swallow hard. Of course you know what he does; isn’t that the reason why you ended up here?

“What do you want, Felix?”

You manage to keep the fear from your voice as you respond and it makes you proud. Maybe you’re not as afraid of this man as you once were.

All of a sudden a series of images start flickering across the wall where Victor had been trapped. Your image is splashed across the brick.

“Government officials are under investigation today as information has come out that many were involved in drugs, prostitution, and even murder,” says a female news anchor. “Sources confirm that the facts came from an interesting source: the email of a now-deceased woman who was discovered burned to death in her dilapidated townhouse a few weeks ago—“

The bottom drops out of your stomach.

_You can thank me later._

The flash drive, the one you’d left at Victor’s penthouse. All the information you’d saved on it was now all over the news. It was all out in the open; everything that had happened, everything that had been done to you—to  _others_.

“You’re bad, bad, girl,” says the man as the images fade away.

“Stop talkin’ to him, kid,” he says gruffly. “He can’t hurt you anymore.”

You spin on him. “He can!” you snap. “Look at what he did to Victor! He  _knows_  how to hurt me; he’s always known!”

The chuckle that comes over the speaker is self-satisfied. “That’s right, sweetheart,” he croons, “but didn’t you like they way I used to hurt you? Isn’t that why you’re with that savage animal now, because you like the way he hurts you?”

Your spine stiffens with anger. “Victor would never harm me,” you hiss. “He’s not like you. He’s  _nothing_  like you.”

Another smug laugh. “He’s  _exactly_  like me.”

You don’t respond, instead letting the seconds tick by. The speaker fizzes in the silence. Finally, you speak: “What do you want?”

“You know what I want.” Felix says.

A small cabinet pops open to the left of the brick wall; Logan starts towards it and you put your hand out, halting him. It’s obvious he doesn’t like it as he gives you a curt nod of his head, but you couldn’t give less of a shit.

At this point, you’ll do anything to ensure Victor’s safety, even if that means doing the unthinkable.

Your hand closes around a gun; you pull it out slowly, raise it, and aim it at the man standing less than ten feet away from you.

You could almost laugh at the shock on Logan’s face but this isn’t a laughing moment—this is a serious moment, and despite evidence to the contrary, you can be quite serious when the occasion calls for it.

Like saving Victor’s life.

“Kid, don’t.” Logan says.

“Stop,” you command and he does, lowering his hands. “This isn’t your fight. It’s never been yours; I’m sorry.”

You begin advancing towards Logan slowly. He doesn’t move; you know he won’t go down permanently, but as Victor told you: ‘gettin’ shot still fuckin’ hurts like a motherfuckin’ bitch’.

“Promise me,” you say loudly, your voice echoing in the room. “Promise me no one else gets hurt. This stays between you and me.”

A few seconds of silence tick by before Felix speaks: “Done.”

_Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam! Blam!_

You fire six tranquilizer darts and Logan staggers forward a few steps before collapsing onto his knees, foaming at the mouth. You crouch next to him, laying the gun by his feet.

“If you can still hear me, Logan, please tell Victor there was no other choice—and that I … I—“

The words die in your throat, so you leave them unspoken.

You get to your feet in time to see Logan fall gracelessly onto his face and stride towards the front doors, not daring to look back.

Like the fifteen lives before it, this life is over now.

It’s time to go back to what you do best and that means leaving everything from this life behind.

You banish all thoughts of Victor from your head as the cool night air hits your flushed face, the moon a sliver of silver against the indigo sky. The limo is waiting for you and you slide in, the door bumping shut softly behind you.

“Hello, my pet.”

You pick up the glass of champagne waiting for you and down it in one gulp, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before setting the empty crystal back down with surprisingly little force.

“Hello, prime minister.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> #1 Crush by Garbage - written by Garbage; produced by Garbage/Nellee Hooper; released by Mushroom, 1996
> 
> The Smurfs/Smurfette/Gargamel - created by Peyo; active since 1958. If you're Canadian and old like me, you watched these little bastards on the Access Channel from 1981-1989 or have seen the traumatic film 'The Smurfs and the Magic Flute'
> 
> A Flock of Seagulls #1 - a band with the song 'I Ran (So Far Away)' in 1982
> 
> A Flock of Seagulls #2 - a bunch of birds famous for shitting on your car and running so far away when you get within five feet of them
> 
> Arrête - means 'Stop' in French
> 
> Imbecile - means 'Imbecile' or 'Idiot' in French
> 
> Merde - means 'shit' in French
> 
> Lonsdaleite - a strong-ass mineral that comes from meteorites
> 
> The Christmas Song (Chestnuts Roasting...) - by Mel Torme; written by Mel Torme and Robert Wells; released 1945


	4. Step Twelve: Target Missed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All you want is to get back to your life with Victor, but who says you can ever get what you want?

I will go if you ask me to  
I will stay if you dare  
And if I go, I’m goin' crazy  
I’ll let my darlin' take me there

 

\- _If I Go, I’m Goin_ by Gregory Alan Isakov

 

* * *

 

The limo is quiet except for the gentle swishing of the wind as it flows over the car.

It should be soothing, but it’s not.

It doesn’t help that Felix is sitting across from you, his eyes fixed on your face as if he’s waiting for you to say something. You don’t give him the satisfaction; instead, you clasp your hands in you lap and stare right back at his stupid, dumb face.

The bottle of champagne is empty and snug back in its bucket—you’d made short work of it once your ass hit the leather seat, downing glass after glass of the expensive stuff, each one more bitter and tasteless than the last.

Even now, a sour taste sits in the back of your throat, almost choking you, climbing up the back of your tongue. The liquor didn’t even touch your sobriety nor had it been drugged, both of which surprised you.

If you were going to have to spend the rest of your Earthly time in Felix’s company, you’d rather be drunk off your ass or high as a fucking kite.

Shit, your metaphor game sucks right now.

“Still a tippler, are you?” Felix says, his tone teasing.

He’s trying to ease the tension, bring things back to the way they were before you ran away.

The goddamn Prime Minister of Canada.

Fuck.

You’d never been political, so when you and he had spent that first night together, you’d had no idea who he was—a politician with his eyes on the big prize.

You didn’t give a shit; the man was a great lay and he gave you expensive shit. What was there to worry about?

You’re still not sure how he became prime minister with all this sordid stuff in his past. He _was_ rich beforehand, so maybe he just knew the right people to pay off.

It was after he was elected that things got bad.

He started going crazy with power, pushing through awful legislations about mutants, making it increasingly difficult to be one in the true north, strong and free.

When the killing started, that’s when you knew you had to get out.

“Fuck off,” you snap.

Felix chuckles. “Still a spitfire too, I see. This is going to be fun.”

“I’d rather die.”

His smile widens. “It won’t be you doing the dying, pet.”

What the fuck did he mean by that? You decide you don’t want to know and don’t respond, lapsing back into that super-uncomfortable silence.

You try not to think about Victor as the streetlights whip by, but you can’t help it. His wicked hands, his sexy smile, that sinfully beautiful body, all the things you’re going to miss about him, which is pretty much everything—except the snoring.

My god … Victor’s eyes, those gorgeous chips of amber, the colour of a fine whisky.

How they would look at you when he wanted you, how they would flash as he plunged into you, claiming you, how intense they would get the closer he came to his release …

You shift in your seat, feeling the sweet slick between your legs.

Time to stop those thoughts. Your breath is coming a little faster thanks to those naughty images and the last thing you want to do is make Felix think you’re hot for him when you were really thinking of your mate’s amazingly taut ass.

All too soon, the limo comes to a stop and Felix tries to help you out of the vehicle, but you don’t want his hands on you and slap them away. He does offer an overcoat to cover your stained and stinking onesie and that you _do_ accept, but not gratefully—and you don’t thank him.

Neither of you speak as he leads you to an elevator, nor as it starts making its ascent. Felix touches your lower back, his hand hot through the fabric of the coat. You tense but don’t push him away this time.

You’re too tired and ready to end this and if it means enduring his touch for a few more moments, you can suck it up.

“Where are my cats?” you ask suddenly as you’re taken into a large, opulent living room.

You’d heard Felix refer to it as his ‘safe house’, but it was more like a ‘safe mansion’, too big and too luxurious to be a place for hanging out until the heat died down.

Victor’s RV, now _that_ was a safe house. Barely enough room for the two of you, constantly brushing against each other accidently, those accidents turning into something much more sensual …

“I have no idea, pet,” Felix says. “It’s beyond my comprehension why Mystique took them; I suppose it was just a lark for her.”

You close your eyes to fight the tears that are building.

You’d rescued Bob and Doug McKenzie from a skeevy alley, their poor mother and siblings already dead. Their mewls of hunger were piteous and heartbreaking and you’d handled them both carefully, taking them into the nearest vet and blowing all the money you’d had left to make sure they would make it through the first night.

You let out a shaky breath, pushing back the lump in your throat.

_Please let them be somewhere safe._

“Fine,” you reply, keeping your voice cold. “Who’s this?”

There’s a strange man sitting on the sofa and he smiles at you, the gesture sending ice through your veins. He’s handsome in a villianish sort-of way, all dark hair and eyes.

“This is Maximus,” Felix says. “He’s here to help you.”

“I don’t need help,” you reply angrily. “I need to end this thing between us, Felix, and I want to end it now!”

He begins pushing you towards the couch and you start to struggle. Has the stupid fucker forgotten how strong you are? You move to push back, but you can’t.

You try again, trying to hit him with all your might, but it comes off as just a weak punch with no strength at all behind it.

What the fuck?

Someone’s fucking around in your brain. You can feel it now, that little niggling sensation of fingertips stroking your neurons. You snap your gaze to Maximus and his wide smile threatens to split his face in half.

Wait? What are you doing trying to hurt Felix?

You drop your fists and let him gently push you down across from Maximus.

“Just listen to what the nice man has to say, okay, pet? Just relax.”

You nod your head, waiting to hear Maximus speak.

Words spill from his mouth.

You listen.

It doesn’t feel right.

This _isn’t right_.

Are you hearing him correctly?

As if a switch is flipped, the man’s words suddenly become clear and you know why it’s not right.

You _know_.

You scream.

 

 

_Victor_

_Tiger, what’s happenin’?_

_I love you so much, Victor_

_Why you talkin’ like that?_

_You’re the best thing in my life_

_What’s goin’ on?_

Let go.

_Don’t leave me_

_I’m trying not to_

_I never loved nothin’ my whole life ‘cept you_

Let go.

_I need you, I want you_

Let go.

_NO!_

_Don’t let go!_

Let go!

_No, please don’t make me_

_Hold on, tiger. Hold onto me!_

_Ican’tIcan’tIcan’t_

_IT HURTS_

LET GO!

 

_Pulling. Twisting.            Pulling. Twisting._

_Wrenching.                        Wrenching._

_There is pain.                        There is pain._

_Excruciating pain—worse than what we’ve already healed._

_Worse than anything._

_You have been violently ripped from us._

_There is now an empty place in our soul where you used to be._

_I cannot find you anywhere._

_Not within._

_Not without._

_Rage._

_Red._

_Blood._

_WHERE IS SHE?!_

_GIVE HER TO US!_

_GIVE_

_US_

_OUR_

_MATE!_

* * *

 

 

I come to in a puddle of blood an’ some other bodily fluids I ain’t gonna mention ‘cause gross.

Looks like the beast’s been busy, freakin’ its shit, fuckin’ up anythin’ it could get its claws on.

Cell’s trashed: bed wrenched from the wall, mattress shredded into a cotton ball, holes punched in the concrete. Claw marks added for style.

Locked up, like I’m the fuckin’ bad guy here.

I mean, I _am_ the fuckin’ bad guy here, but potato/potahto.

I’m exhausted, naked an’ slick with sweat, an Jimmy’s across from me—on the other side of the glass, mind you—his arms crossed over his chest, gaze on the floor.

At least he’s got the smarts not to look me in the fuckin’ eyes right now.

“How long,” I rasp, checkin’ out my body, skatin’ my hands over my flesh. Everythin’s smooth an’ where it should be.

“Three days,” Jimmy says.

Beastie freaked out for three fuckin’ days.

Shit, that’s gotta be a record for me, but if it was feelin’ what I’m feelin’ now, I don’t blame the motherfucker.

The ache is deep; bone deep, soul deep. You ain’t there no more, like you just up an’ quit it. Walked away without so much as a _fuck you_.

You’re gone; I feel empty.

“Gimme some clothes,” I say to the runt. “I’m gettin’ outta here.”

His hands uncross as he steps forward to look at me. “Doc don’t want you leavin’, Victor. You ain’t well yet an’ he don’t think your healin’ factor’s fully recovered from the trauma—“

“Don’t you fuckin’ call me by that goddamn name,” I snarl, poundin’ on the glass. “We ain’t friends, runt. We ain’t never gonna be, neither.”

Jimmy turns away, rubbin’ his hands over his face. He looks tired, but I couldn’t give less than a fuckin’ shit.

“Christ,” he says. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that.”

I slam my fists against the glass. “You was supposed t’ keep her safe!” I scream, spit flyin’ from my mouth. “I told you I didn’t want her doin’ your dumb-ass X-Fuckers shit! You promised me! YOU PROMISED ME!”

He shifts; I made him fuckin’ uncomfortable.

Good.

It’s like you’ve been ripped from me, torn away from my soul an’ I can barely fuckin’ stand it. I’m losin’ my goddamn mind.

“Get me some fuckin’ clothes, runt,” I growl. “I ain’t fuckin’ kiddin’. I told you that I’d fuckin’ kill anyone that stands between me an’ her an’ I wasn’t fartin’ fuckin’ cotton candy. I’ll fuckin’ kill you, you ugly son of a bitch. When I get outta here, I’m gonna fuckin’ gut you an’ eat your insides slowly, make you watch the whole goddamn—“

Jimmy slaps his open hand on the glass angrily. “Shut the fuck up!” he shouts. “She _wanted_ to come! I couldn’t fuckin’ stop her; she’s fuckin’ stubborn as shit.”

You _are_ fuckin’ stubborn as shit. It’s one of the trillion things I fuckin’ love about you. I can picture you standin’ up to the runt, readin’ him the riot act an’ tellin’ him to go fuck himself, you were goin’.

“You shoulda stopped her,” I say, runnin’ out of steam. “You shoulda locked her up, tied her down … somethin’, Jimmy, _anything_.”

I hear the goddamn tremor in my voice.

Jimmy hears it too. “Should get some rest,” he mutters.

We’re pretendin’ I’m tired. Well, it ain’t a lie.

I wanna find you.

“It ain’t gonna be here,” I say. “This place is covered in piss.”

“That ain’t my fault.”

I shrug. “Kinda. Beastie needed to mark its territory; means you musta pissed in here once or twice. Might wanna have a talk with your clean-up crew.”

Jimmy crosses to the cell an’ presses a few fancy lookin’ buttons. A door hisses open.

He’s lettin’ me go.

“Pile of clean clothes around the corner,” he says with the jerk of a thumb, then he reaches into his pocket an’ pulls out a set of keys, hand ‘em to me. “Go out the back an’ take the bike.”

It’s mighty nice of Jimmy to share his toys, it’s the absolute least he could fuckin’ do after everythin’ that’s happened.

I snatch the keys from his hand an’ round the corner. Jeans an’ a tee. Sneakers. Looks about my size. As I’m pullin’ the shirt over my head, I sense the runt behind me.

“We’ll help where we can,” he says. “I’ll pass along anythin’ I hear.”

As I go to move past him, he puts a hand on my elbow, stoppin’ me. We don’t face each other.

“I’ll make this right, Victor,” Jimmy says. “I do whatever I can to … make this right.”

I don’t say nothin’; he don’t expect it an’ bein’ forgivin’ ain’t in my nature.

I know he means it though.

It don’t mean I ain’t gonna tear him t’ pieces one day.

That he _does_ expect.

Fuckin’ asshole.

 

* * *

 

There’s some interestin’ smells floatin’ ‘round outside my safe house, so I ain’t surprised when Bob and Doug McKenzie come runnin’ up to me as I lock the door behind me.

They look clean an’ well fed, thank Christ.

I’d never admit it, but I’m kinda glad to see the fuzzy l’il bastards bumpin’ an’ meowin’ against my legs, glad to see someone familiar, wantin’ a piece of Big Daddy Sabes.

I go into the living room, the cats trailin’ behind me.

“Fuck off, Raven.”

She’s sittin’ on the sofa, watchin’ me carefully. If she thinks I’m gonna attack her, she ain’t wrong—I just ain’t gonna do it right now.

I pass her by, Bob and Doug practically hangin’ onto my legs, and grab a beer from the fridge. It’s still nice an’ cold.

I pry the top off an’ take a huge gulp. The beer’s a few years old, but it ain’t like beer goes bad. Even if it did, it ain’t like it would kill me.

I take another drink, wishin’ that I could get nice an’ drunk. I’d go on a good ol’ bender—mebbe a week—gamblin’ an’ whorin’ an’ doin’ whatever the fuck I wanted.

Just like old times.

Fuck, I’d do anythin’ if it’d make me forget about you, tiger.

Mystique’s still there as I come out.

“Thought I told you to fuck off,” I say roughly, sittin’ across from her.

Bob an’ Doug are careful to avoid the woman, trottin’ up to me an’ demandin’ to get in my lap. I let ‘em, ‘cause right now, they’re the only link to you that I have left, the small, furry evidence that you _did_ exist an’ I wasn’t makin’ you up.

It’s easy to think you weren’t real ‘cause you’d been cut from me so cleanly, so precisely—an’ also if I pretend you’re not real, I can keep goin’ on, I can keep movin’.

Raven takes a breath and slides her hands down her thighs as she leans forward. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like that,” she says.

I huff a laugh. “You ain’t the first person to say that to me today,” I reply caustically. “Mebbe none of this shit woulda happened if you’d just left me an’ her the fuck alone.”

“Jesus, Victor, the money he was offering—“

I stand, the cats scattering, my chest heavin’. Now I’m fuckin’ pissed off.

“I don’t give a fuckin’ shit about that _or_ you,” I snarl, loomin’ over her. “He ripped my mate from me, Raven, from my goddamned soul! I can’t feel her anymore! An’ _you_ put it all in motion— _YOU_.”

I turn away from her, down the rest of the bottle, an’ smash it at her fuckin’ feet.

She stays completely still, doesn’t even fuckin’ blink.

“You best start runnin’, Raven, ‘cause if I see you in the flesh again—any flesh—I’ll fuckin’ kill ya. An’ I won’t be nice ‘cause we useta fuck.”

Mystique stands slowly, her eyes on me. She may be one of the best assassins in the world an’ as crafty as shit, but when I’m angry, she knows what I’m capable of.

I’m a fuckin’ killin’ machine—an’ I love it.

“You don’t have the stones, Creed,” she sneers. “You’re weak when it comes to me; you always have been.”

I step towards her, my bare feet grindin’ into the broken glass.

Feels nice.

“I ain’t weak for you no more, Raven,” I say, my voice low an’ dangerous. “I won’t be weak for you again.”

She slips past me, going for the door. As soon as her hand’s on the knob, she turns back to me. “I can have you killed, you know.”

I laugh. “You wouldn’t,” I jeer. “You want the satisfaction of killin’ me yourself.”

Mystique narrows her eyes; I got her.

“I got your scent, Raven. I know who you are even when you don’t, so if I smell you anywhere near me—“

The slammin’ of the door is loud.

I wait a few minutes, ‘fore I go back to the kitchen an’ grab another beer.

I throw myself on the couch where Raven had sat, pushin’ my feet down hard on the shattered glass. Bob an’ Doug leap up an’ curl around me, purrin’ an’ bein’ adorable an’ shit.

It makes me ache.

I’m gonna get you back, tiger.

Goddamn these cats are cute.

 

* * *

 

The morning light is soft as it comes through the flimsy white curtains.

You stretch slowly and luxuriously, letting each muscle extend before you relax.

Holy fuck, do you feel great, better than you have in a long time, actually.

“Hi, pet,” comes a familiar voice. “Did you sleep well?”

You roll over and see the man you love, his green eyes sparking as he smiles down at you. “I would’ve slept better if you’d been next to me,” you pout, making him smile wider.

He chuckles and sits on the bed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “I’m sorry, pet. You know how work is,” he says. “I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

You return his smile and flip the bed sheets aside, exposing your naked body. “I think I know of a way …”

Felix laughs and begins to unbutton his shirt. “Your wish is my command.”

Soon, he’s naked and overtop of you, pushing you towards a pleasure you never thought possible.

You can't help but think that you're the luckiest woman in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I Go, I'm Goin - by Gregory Alan Isakov from the album This Empty Northern Hemisphere; written by Gregory Alan Isakov, Johann Wagner, John Elliot; released 2009
> 
> The Prime Minister of Canada is the leader of our nation. For more on how Canada works of a executive, legislative, and judicial level, read books. Or Wikipedia; no judgement here.
> 
> Maximus Boltigon (AKA Maximus the Mad and many others) - Inhuman, increased intelligence and mental control. First appeared in Fantastic Four #47, Feb. '66. I honestly didn't mean for him to show up. It just happened, dammit.


End file.
